I don’t like shopping. I might even say I hate shopping. I prolong clothes shopping for myself for as long as I can, sometimes wearing shredded pants, faded shirts and sole-flapping shoes until my wife is so embarrassed to be around me that she drags me to the store.
When I get to the store to buy clothes for myself, I like to get in and out of the place (only one place) as fast as I can, and I buy enough clothes to last a couple years.
When my wife wants to go shopping for herself, she usually likes to bring me along for some reason. On those occasions, I usually put off getting dressed so there’s less time left in the day to shop. And the day before, I make sure to use all the gas in the car so that I can kill some more time on shopping day at the gas station.
I make sure that I’m always hungry when we go shopping so we can take a long lunch, which is more entertaining than going from store to store looking at things we’d never even think to buy. And I order full-course meals.
This dislike for shopping even extends a bit into Christmas shopping. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy giving gifts to people, but I hate fighting crowds in the malls, waiting in line, dealing with outofstock items that I want to buy—I just don’t feel productive in that type of atmosphere.
However, when I became the father of a son, my whole outlook on shopping changed. The key word here: son. Yes, my son has made shopping more exciting.
As many family men know, most gifts that people give us go for the utility effect, such as the tie. A hat. Pants. Tools. A barbecue set. I’ve got four barbecue sets myself. Christmas gifts aren’t usually fun for the average family man. Until you have a boy.
In Year One with my son, I got him an electric train set that I knew he wanted for Christmas. My wife didn’t want to get the train set since the box was clearly marked, “For ages 5 and up.”
“What do they know? They just don’t want to get sued if someone gets hurt. I had a train set at birth. I never got hurt.”
My wife and I helped our son open the train set on Christmas morning. He was more amused by the wrapping paper than with the gift itself.
“See, he’s too young to enjoy that kind of toy,” my wife said. “We should’ve gotten him that educational . . .”
“Educational? I’m all for educational, but what boy wants educational on Christmas morning?” I replied. “We want––I mean, boys want––toys to play with. Now let me put this thing together; then you’ll see that he loves it.”
After putting the train set together, I test-drove it around the track a few hundred times to show my son how it worked. My son was still having fun with the wrapping paper. I was having fun with the train—a small victory for a family man who normally has to reorganize his toolbox on Christmas morning so the new tools fit.
Last year’s Christmas was more fun than the one before. I really took advantage of having a son. I talked my wife into getting him a remotecontrol truck. We also got him one of those electric slot car racetracks and the Shel Silverstein poetry collection I always wanted as a kid. That year, my son actually took interest in his gifts. We both had a blast. “Do we have to eat Christmas dinner? Can’t we sit in our PJs the rest of the day and play with our toys?” That’s me talking there.
This year, I heard about a toy gun set that allows you to shoot fake aluminum cans off a wood-like plastic post. When the guns are fired, remote sensors trigger buttons in the post that launch the cans into the air as if you’d really shot the cans off the post.
I’m told it takes a bit of skill to hit the targets. Sound effects accompany missed shots and shots that hit the target.
To me, this gun set sounds like a great gift for my son. My wife hates the idea, saying she doesn’t want him to have guns.
“I had toy guns as a kid and nothing bad happened to me,” I said in defense of my son. My wife still doesn’t want the gun set. But I’ve come to the conclusion that if I find the gun set in a store, I’m just going to get it.
And when it magically shows up beneath the Christmas tree on Christmas morning, I’ll tell my wife Santa Claus brought it. She can’t respond to that in front of our son.
And so here I am, waiting for my wife to go Christmas shopping. It’s 7 a.m. and the stores will be opening soon. I wish she’d hurry up. Some stores close at 5 p.m. and we may not have enough time to look around for toys for me––I mean for my son.
She’s sure taking a long time to get dressed. Hold on, she’s trying to tell me something. She tells me we have to gas up the car before going shopping, and she wants to go out for breakfast. Just my luck.
E-mail Michael Picarella at pic@theacorn.com.
